


Nobody's Waiting for Me

by Chex (provetheworst)



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-03
Updated: 2013-03-03
Packaged: 2017-12-04 03:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/706197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provetheworst/pseuds/Chex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ageswap fic, or: the one where Nick is twenty and just got handed his own radio show, and Harry is a washed up popstar trying to make a comeback.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nobody's Waiting for Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lethifolds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lethifolds/gifts).



> There were a bunch of image sets of Nick at age, like, 20 and 21 going around, and I got a little carried away with an idea. Most of this was written straight into someone's ask box on Tumblr. Then I made Tumblr user loupmal look over it for me. So yeah.

“So, Harry, I hear you’re coming out with a solo album finally,” Nick says.

 

Harry remembers to lean in close to the microphone. “Yeah, I’ve been working on writing some songs of my own -“

“Been a while, hasn’t it? Since we’ve heard from Harry Styles of One Direction. What can we expect from Harry Styles all alone?”

“Just some good music, I guess. It’s not going to be that pop stuff, though that’s an influence, yeah? I’ve been listening to a lot of music. A lot of R & B, a lot of indie.”

“When’ve you had time, with Celebrity Big Brother and all?”

Harry remembers getting interviewed on the fucking breakfast show, and here he is with this kid who only just got a night time show. It’s still Radio 1, so there’s that, but this Nick Grimshaw might as well be an intern, and Harry’s - he’s sort of tired, honestly. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this again, reminding himself everything he hated about being in the band. It’s been eight years; he thought he could handle it. “Oh, I’ve managed all right.”

“Tell us what bands you’ve been listening to.”

-

After that interview, Harry goes on to do loads more, spending most of the time gracefully allowing the entire country to take the piss out of him because it is honestly pretty funny. He’s a washed up popstar attempting a comeback on his own merits, after all.

At least it gets him an invite to the Brits that year, even though he’s not nominated and his record isn’t out yet; he gets to present, not perform. Better than nothing. There are a lot of people who still like him, people wishing him well. It’s just hard ignoring the ones who don’t.

He doesn’t quite remember how he dealt with it so well last time. The blow was insulated, of course, by the presence of the other four. There were other people to spread it out over. All Harry got called was a bit of a player, while Zayn was called a terrorist and worse, and anyway, they were all there for each other.

Harry ends up sat with Nick Grimshaw and a lot of other people who, in the long run, don’t really matter and aren’t especially famous. Things are strange, but Nick keeps up a running patter making fun of absolutely everyone that gets up on stage. When Harry has to go, he’s sure Nick makes fun of him, too, but it’s kind of entertaining listening to Nick talk.

“I’m usually much nicer,” Nick confides in him at one point. “That’s how you get people to like you. Really drunk right now, though. Are you drunk?”

“A little bit,” Harry says.

“Then you’re not doing it right! Come on, you’ve done the Brits, it’s supposed to be a party!”

“You haven’t?”

“First year I got invited,” Nick whispers. “It’s brilliant. Last year I was sat at home, and now here I am. I reckon at this rate, I’ll be elected prime minister by next year.”

“It’s not an election year.”

Nick arches his eyebrows, recoils. “And?”

Harry laughs.

“Come on, come on, you’re Harry Styles,” Nick tells him. “Get drunk. You have to have stories.”

“I don’t need to be drunk for that,” Harry says, sort of protesting, but he does have another drink. And another.

And a few more after that. It’s a little much, possibly, and is how he ends up telling Nick Grimshaw, “And that’s - what - Louis … did … for breakfast.”

Nick’s howling with laughter, anyway. “You’re a delight; why would anyone hate you?”

“I’m a villain,” Harry sighs, meaningfully. “NME says so.”

“What, really? I love the NME, they’re rubbish.”

Apparently Nick Grimshaw is delighted and fascinated by everything Harry has to say, which is a bizarre but sort of lovely change of pace, considering Harry’s tendency to ramble and never get to the point, and often not have a point to be gotten to.

They end up heading off to an afterparty together, impromptu, and then another one, and then Harry’s saying, “No, no, I’m tired,” so they stay at that one entirely too long even though Harry means to go home. He likes to think he’s getting old for this, except how he’s more awake than he’s been in ages, drunk and laughing and happy.

Harry hasn’t been invited to the Brits in years, and had thought about not even going, and here he is, three in the morning hanging out with a bunch of twenty-somethings.

Technically Harry is still a twenty-something, but there’s a bit of a gaping yaw between his impossibly tired twenty nine and Grimshaw’s - “How old are you?” Harry asks, putting his hands on Nick’s shoulders and staring at him, eyes huge and terrified. “How old. Are you.”

“Just twenty,” Nick preens. “And look at me, living the life. The dream. I was an intern this time six months ago, you know.”

“Bloody hell,” Harry says, and ends up kind of tipping forward - he almost goes in for a hug, almost goes in for something else, and ends up just stumbling so Nick has to catch him. “You’re the smallest broadcaster of all time.”

“Not that small, am I?” Nick says, helping guide Harry upright again. “Eh? That was a joke; you could do to laugh.”

“Don’t want to laugh,” Harry replies miserably. “I’m old. I’m almost thirty, I’m going to die.”

“Oh, don’t worry, there’s plenty of lovely people who are over thirty. Pete Doherty’s over thirty.”

“Fucking hell,” Harry says. “Have you met him?”

“No.” Nick’s excited, at that. “Have you? Could you get me in, like, I want to do an interview but I don’t think Radio 1 would care anymore, but if you -“

“No,” Harry says. “I’m not friends with him.”

“You’re worthless,” Nick says, slinging an arm companionably around Harry’s shoulders. “Utterly worthless, popstar, it’s a delight. You are a national bloody treasure.”

“Ha.”

Harry Styles hates Nick Grimshaw.

So of course, it’s only natural that, a week later when Harry’s doing promo for his album that he worked really bloody hard on that he ends up at some industry thing - it’s a fashion show and a gallery showing and a rock show and lord knows what else, and there is too much happening at once for Harry’s tastes anymore - he runs into Nick Grimshaw again, both of them get drunk, and Harry ruins his life.

Well.

He supposes it’s the paparazzi that ruin his life. They do it later, but this is sort of where it starts, anyway.

He gets drunk, is the thing, and Nick’s charming and young and going on about the nature of pop music, and Harry just keeps staring at his mouth, and Nick goes, “Got a problem there, popstar?”

“Yeah.” Harry scowls, and goes in to see if he can kiss the pretty off of Nick’s face. Maybe he’s a touch aggressive, but Nick makes this ridiculous, playful little growl sound in return and Harry pushes him up against a wall and that’s bad enough.

It gets worse when Nick turns, whispering into Harry’s ear, “Your place or mine, Styles?”

That’s when they go outside and the cameras are bloody blinding, and it probably wasn’t them the paparazzi were waiting for - neither of them matters enough right now, but there were other, worthwhile people at the party - except. Except for what they’re doing. There’s a nice moment where it’s dark, and then everything’s lit up again.

Harry keeps his head down, but Nick’s sort of preening, got his arms ‘round Harry like Harry’s a prize to be won. Nick just laughs about the whole thing, kisses Harry’s cheek before they fall into a cab and head for Nick’s place, and Harry thinks about stopping it there but then he just pushes Nick up against the door of the cab and kisses him again and Nick pulls at his hair and bites at his lip and keeps bloody encouraging him, so.

They get to Nick’s, Nick fucks Harry - “Really, love, you want to - well, it’s not like I’m going to say no, I just thought - all right, all right! I’ll get on with it” - and Harry falls asleep half sprawled on top of him and doesn’t think at all about how much he’s going to regret this later.

-

“You want breakfast?” Nick asks, staring at him.

Harry squints up at Nick. “What’s happening?”

“I’m asking you if you want breakfast or not.”

“No, I know that. What’s - what? Nick?”

“Morning, Harry.”

“I feel awful,” Harry says, and stumbles out of bed to go throw up. He hasn’t gotten that drunk in ages, it feels like.

Nick leans in around the door of the bathroom after a moment. “Very glamorous, I can see you lead a wild lifestyle. You need anything? Glass of water?”

“Yeah,” Harry croaks, and Nick gets him a glass of water and puts a damp cloth on his neck, which is excessive but also kind of nice. Harry groans and lets himself be led to Nick’s couch.

“I’m going to make breakfast,” Nick tells him, holding up a finger sternly. “You wait here.”

Harry waits there. He doesn’t have much choice. He’s fairly certain he’s going to die. Also, his bum hurts, and he’s pretty sure he has a hickey - everywhere, actually. There’s one on his wrist, and for the love of all that’s good and right and holy he has no idea why that was even allowed to happen or what Nick thought he was doing. It’s sort of colorful, though. That’s entertaining. Harry’s going to have to start wearing his nice watches again until it’s gone.

-

“Fucking hell, Harry,” his publicist says, trying to get his hair and outfit in order. “Do you need a minder again? We thought you were over this. Grimshaw’s all right, at least, could have done worse on that.”

“Sorry,” Harry croaks, voice still a bit rough.

“I’d have thought you would know better.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry says. “Seems not.”

-

While he’s going from one interview to the next, Harry checks his phone. There are a lot of messages from the people in charge of managing his comeback, most of them annoyed, so he deletes all of them and starts messaging Nick, instead, because he might as well at this point.

He’s made every other potential mistake in dealing with the idiot DJ. Might as well just go all in.

-

“What d’you think of this one?” Nick asks, holding up a jumper.

“It’s all right.”

“Just all right?”

“Yeah, not that good. Here, I like this one,” Harry says, pulling a completely different jumper from the rack and tossing it toward Nick, who manages to catch it while dropping the other one.

“Oh, this is nice. Going to go try it on, then,” Nick says. He wiggles his eyebrows. “You want to join me?”

“I’ll wait just outside the dressing rooms,” Harry says, rolling his eyes a little but laughing anyway. Nick is ridiculous, and it’s sort of amazing, honestly. Harry’s always felt a bit like the boring one, but Nick apparently doesn’t think so. Harry was Nick’s _favorite,_ apparently, which is absurd, and Harry doesn’t want to think about how young Nick Grimshaw was back then.

He hangs around, and a lady says, “Are you the one off One Direction?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, brightening a little.

“Doing a solo career now, right? You think that’s going to work out?”

“I hope so,” Harry says.

“It just seems like you’re a bit old for a comeback. I mean, you’ve got an adult son.”

“I have?” Harry asks, absolutely baffled.

“In the dressing room? He’s a sharp-looking boy, though, you should be -“

“You mean Nick?!” Harry squawks. He can hear Nick cracking up from inside the changing room. “I’m nine years older than him!”

-

“Have you ever flown a helicopter?” Nick asks, stroking at Harry’s hip hopefully.

“No. Why, do we need to make a daring escape? Are we action heroes now?”  
“God, do I wish,” Nick says. “I’m just thinking of ways we could get back to yours without being mobbed.”

“We won’t be mobbed. No one cares about either of us enough for that. What the hell are you even talking about?”

“The other night -“

“There were important people there, Nick,” Harry sighs, and takes Nick by the wrist to tug him out the door. He considers holding Nick’s hand, but that seems a bit much. Nick’s happy enough to follow along, at least.

No one photographs them.

-

“My album drops tomorrow. I’m going to die,” Harry says, yawning. Nick hands him a cup of coffee.

“You’d better not. You’re the comeback story of the year; if you die, no one else’s going to want to stage a comeback.”

“I’ve talked to the others, they don’t -“

“No, I didn’t just mean your band. I meant everyone. They’ll be intimidated. ‘Oh, did you see Harry Styles dropped dead? I heard he was with that Grimshaw fellow, what a shame, maybe I should listen to Nick’s show instead of making a comeback.’”

Harry stares at him.

“I think I lost my train of thought a bit there,” Nick admits. “Now, come on, get in the car. Get in, get in.”

“This is your car.”

“I’m driving you. I’m giving you a ride. Zane Lowe wants to talk to you, you media darling.”

“You’re the strangest little bastard of a child,” Harry says, but lets Nick drive him, grateful for it. He leans his cheek against the glass of the window, watching the street whip by. They can go fast, because it’s stupidly early yet and no one’s about. Even for London, it’s a quiet morning.

“I’m not a child. Don’t think you’d be fucking me if I were,” Nick says. “Or I hope not, anyway.”

“Lord, no.”

“There, see? Then don’t call me one again.”

“I was making fun of you.”

“I am fun, aren’t I?”

-

Harry doesn’t see Nick for a while after his album comes out - he invites Nick to the release party, but Nick's got work that night that doesn’t involve seeing Harry Styles - and then he’s off on a little tour of the UK, playing venues smaller than he’s used to, though he does quite like them.

Then it’s more press, then Europe, then more of the UK, and somewhere in there he starts writing music again because there’s not much else to do.

By the time he’s back in London, he doesn’t want to do anything but hide in his house and write, which is absurd and not actually tenable.

Niall’s the one who breaks him out of it. Niall messages him with _congratulations_ and then mentions he’s in town and they should go out, and that turns into a full-blown reunion, however informal.

Louis doesn’t show up.

Whatever. Harry’s over it. Liam and Zayn and Niall are still his best mates,  
after all this time, even after the whole gradual decline and falling out and - whatever happened with Louis. It’s all right, and he likes them, and then Nick’s texting him.

“What’s this, then?” Liam asks, going for his phone. “Is our Harry Styles seeing someone in secret?”

Harry shrugs.

“I bet it’s that kid from Radio 1,” Zayn says. “I keep hearing rumors.”

“It’s not, no! We’re - no,” Harry says, laughing and trying to get away from Liam, who’s decided the right course of action is to chase him and try to steal his phone.

Liam tackles him and manages to get it away. He clears his throat, and then, in a falsetto, reads, “‘Hiya popstar, you want to get dinner later? New restaurant opened down the block, hear it’s great, xx’.”

“I like how you read the x’s,” Niall says. “Very nice, good touch. That’s thorough.”

“Stop going through my -“

Liam’s scrolled up a little, reads, “‘Bored, miss you, come back soon, xoxo’ - ooh, hugs that time, too, this must be serious. Who’s G, anyway?”

“I still say it’s that radio kid,” Zayn says. “What’s his name? Is it like - George, then? Something? No, not George. There’s not really many G names, are there?”

“This is actually really cute,” Liam says. “Who is she? He? Them. Who are they?”

“It’s nobody, never mind,” Harry says, flushed red; he still loves his band, but he can see why he was all right with things ending, too. “Give my phone back.”

Liam does, though, which is nice of him. “Aw, our Harry’s in love. Finally. You going to settle down, _popstar_?”

“No.” Harry feels a bit grumpy, at that. It’s not his fault Liam’s engaged and Zayn’s - sort-of married, there was a whole weird elopement thing with him and Perrie, and Harry still isn’t sure what’s going on, just that both those relationships have lasted too long considering the involvement of washed up musicians. He wonders if Louis’ still with that Eleanor girl, then decides he doesn’t care. “I’m a rogue bachelor. That’s my lifestyle now.”

“A rogue - amazing,” Niall says. “That’s what I should call myself. Harry, Harry, lets do - we can do a single. That’s our band name now, The Rogue Bachelors.”

“Brilliant,” Harry says, laughing, and after that they get off the subject of his phone and the messages from Nick.

When everyone’s gone home and Harry’s alone again, he scrolls through them, then sits there a while, staring at the space somewhere between his eyes and the screen of his phone, not actually focused on anything.

In something of a maudlin fit, he deletes all Nick’s messages. It feels weirdly vulnerable having those on there, is all. Nick’s young and stupid and prone to exaggeration and ego, and kind as he can be, he’s still nine years Harry’s junior. He had a crush on Zayn, for the love of god. When Harry was traveling the world with four of his best friends, Nick was a bloody child, and it’s stupid for Harry to think anything more of whatever they’ve been doing.

It had just felt nice, having little updates about Nick’s day, where he was eating or pictures of a jacket he’d just bought or photos of one of his friends’ dogs, to hear that Nick missed Harry or had just heard his single on the radio or just played_ his single on the radio.

Whatever. It’s stupid, and Harry hesitates a moment longer before going a step further and just deleting Nick from his phone entirely, which he regrets almost instantly.

-

The trouble with trying to avoid Nick is that Nick is bloody well everywhere, apparently, and since Harry has yet to tell Nick he’s being avoided, Nick's not helping his goals.

Not that Nick would probably help anyway.

Harry goes to a party, and Nick’s there hanging around with all his friends, and he spots Harry right as Harry spots him and says, “Styles! Get over here, I was just talking about you!” and there’s no way Harry can pretend not to have heard.

So he goes and collapses onto the couch next to Nick, who kicks his legs across Harry’s lap and continues regaling his loose bunch of friends with stories about how, when he was thirteen (and a _half_ ), he made his mum buy him a One Direction poster because he didn’t want the lads at school knowing how obsessed he was, and then she’d ended up running into one of his friends’ mum’s and telling her, and then the whole school knew Grimmy loved a stupid pop act and had gone to three of their concerts already, and so on.

Harry hates his life a little, but he also rubs his thumb over the bump of bone at Nick’s ankle, watches Nick’s mouth sort of sleepily as Nick talks. He feels his own lips curving up in a traitorous smile, happy enough just to listen as Nick goes on and on with his stupid stories, roving ‘cross topic quite quickly, pausing to ask Harry weird questions or to let Aimee chime in with a correction on some story or another.

They go back to Harry’s, and Harry lets Nick fuck him, and then decides he’s going to avoid Nick again, only then Nick - who apparently presents for a bloody TV show now, too - has to interview him, and they sneak off after filming’s done and make out in a broom closet, anxious and desperate with their hands tangled in each other’s hair.

Harry’s worried they’ll get caught again, now that the press is paying more attention to him, though Nick seems more just worried Harry’s going to stop.

 

At this point, Harry doesn’t think he can stop. Someone’s sabotaged his brakes and he’s going to keep going full speed until he crashes into a wall and burns.

-

Harry’s expecting a call for an interview when his phone rings, so he picks up without looking, says, “Hello, this is Harry.”

“Hi, Harry,” Louis says.

Harry thinks about not saying anything, then says, “Hi,” again instead.

“So how’s - congratulations on the album. How’s that going?”

“It’s good,” Harry says. “It’s going really well, actually. I’m quite pleased.”

“That’s good. Saw it near the till at the shop the other day.” Louis pauses. “So I was just - yeah, just wanted to see how you’re doing and all, I guess.”

“I’m all right.” Harry looks up at his ceiling. “How are you, Tommo?”

“Good, good, I’m fine.” Another long pause makes Harry think he’s supposed to say something to that, but then Louis says, “So you and that DJ, yeah?”

“Nah,” Harry says. “Nah, it’s nothing, it’s stupid.”

“Liam says you and him BBM a lot.”

“I guess,” Harry says. “He’s a friend, it’s all right.”

“Okay.” Louis goes quiet for another long while where Harry’s not sure what to say. “It’s - that’s good, though. If you’re happy and all. You should be.”

“Cheers, mate.” Harry sounds more sarcastic than he means to, with that. “I mean it.” Adding that doesn’t help.

“No, really, man,” Louis says. “He seems all right. I’ve heard his show. Thursday nights. It’s all right; he’s got good taste, at least.”

“His favorite was Zayn,” Harry says, flat.

Louis laughs, delighted. “I told you, good taste!”

“He had a favorite. He was _thirteen._ ” Harry mentally adds the and-a-half to that, but feels like it might be too much to say to Louis.

-

“So is it just like - people your age hate answering texts, or what?” Nick says, next time they run into each other. “I mean, it seems like you’re fine hanging out with me. You keep coming out when I ask you to parties, you just never - answer. Is all. And you used to, so I mean, that’s all right, then, just curious. Yeah, yeah, never mind, so hi, how are you?”

“Ah. I’m all right?” Harry says. “I don’t ignore your texts! Come on.”

“You’ve replied once in the past two weeks, Harry.”

“Well, don’t be so pushy, then,” Harry says, a little grumpy still after the conversation with Louis. He misses Louis, is the worst part. He hasn’t missed Louis in ages.

“Thought you liked me pushy,” Grimmy laughs, and it’s not long after that when Harry drags Grimmy home and pounds him into the mattress, leaving Nick whiny and pleading and desperate, torn apart under him.

Harry kind of wants, for the first time in a long while, to ruin someone pretty. What he really wants is to make Nick cry.

Nick’s such a funny-looking thing, and Harry could probably do better, except how he’s washed up and he likes Nick, too, is the trouble. He could do better, except he can’t imagine how. It’s all a bit awful, and he fucks Nick as hard as he can.

He makes Nick beg, and Nick begs so prettily Harry can’t really stand it. Usually Harry’s into being the one fucked, but this - this was a good idea. Sort of. Actually it was a terrible idea, and Harry should probably burn in hell, but Nick’s face is all scrunched up with something on the border between pain and enjoyment, and making these rough, enthused sounds back in his throat someplace, and Harry doesn’t want to stop fucking him, not ever.

He sort of has to eventually, because he has to come. His orgasm follows not long after Nick’s, who’s been touching himself the whole time and spills all over Harry’s stomach and his own.

“You’re so …” Nick starts, vaguely. “You should’ve been my favorite, but my mate Emma at the time, you were her favorite and I didn’t want to intrude.”

“Oh my god.”

“She loved you so much,” Nick says. “It was mad, I tell you, but now like - who wouldn’t, yeah?”

“Lots of people,” Harry says.

“Well, that’s all right.” Nick pats Harry’s arm, and squirms around, lying on his side next to Harry. “C’mon, give us a cuddle.”

“All right,” Harry says, and, “please don’t talk to me about when you were thirteen, it’s weird.”

“What? It’s not! You’re just a pansy.”

Harry takes Nick’s hand and pulls it up to his mouth so he can gnaw at it playfully.

-

Aimee corners Harry at a party one night. “Stop messing Nick around.”

“What do you mean?”

“Either go out with him or stop leading him on, all right?”

“What are you - what? Why do you even know about this?”

“Because Nick’s a darling,” she says. “Look, it doesn’t matter why I know, it just matters that - he’s … you’re older than he is. Try not to break his heart, is all.”

-

The thing is - and Harry knew this - the press were bound to catch on, and they’re acting like it’s some kind of scandal that Harry’s hooking up with Nick.

A picture gets out of the two of them kissing, and it’s a whole big deal.

Apparently, them leaving that party together ages ago hadn’t been worth latching onto but now everyone cares.

His publicist goes absolutely mental, and Harry is sort of glad, actually, that this happened. It gets him attention. He’s been getting some, and it’s been ramping up slowly. Promotion is hard work, especially when he’s alone and too old and trying to make it as a fucking solo artist. There are thousands of other musicians who’ve had to do the same thing he’s doing, only they haven’t had the benefit - or curse - of being formerly famous. He keeps reminding himself of that.

It’s just the inability of half the press to take him seriously, writing about him like he’s a dog riding a skateboard instead of a human being, like he’s doing a funny trick.

So. The picture. It’s a bit grainy.

Harry texts Nick again, for once - he’d meant to stop doing that, but this is important, and Nick likely doesn’t know how to react. Harry would be overwhelmed, anyway.

Nick just replies, _so do we confirm or deny?_ and Harry doesn’t know what to do with that. His publicist says deny, deny, deny. They aren’t even dating. It’s just a thing - they hide in broom closets and make out sometimes, occasionally Nick’ll come round and fuck Harry. It’s not anything.

Harry’s tired of not having anything though. He’s tired and a little angry at the world, so he says, _you all right with the first one?_ and when he goes outside there’s paparazzi there outside his house just like he was young, and he picks one he still recognizes, says, “You really been doing this for ten years, mate?”

“Good money,” the paparazzo tells him, with a shrug. “So Harry, there’s this photo going ‘round, supposedly you and Nick Grimshaw -“

“Yeah, that was us,” Harry tells him, leaning in close to the microphone. “What magazine do you work for, mate? You just freelance it?”

“Freelance.”

“All right, never mind, I want a real reporter.” Harry raises his voice. “Any of you here proper reporters, not just vultures?”

There’s a lot of laughter and a bit of milling about, and a few of them shout indignantly, and then Harry decides he doesn’t care like he thought he did, turns back to the first one. At least the relentless click of the flashbulbs has died down.

He says, “I don’t see why it’s anyone’s business, but me and Nick Grimshaw are - it’s casual, but he’s off the market, so you know. Anyone who was thinking about having a go at hooking up with him had better back off.”

“You the possessive type then, Harry?” the crowd asks. “You get jealous? Trying to recapture your youth?”

Harry decides he’s done with it and pushes through. Some of them tail after him. He gets in a cab, pays the driver to go in circles.

Any publicity, he tells himself, is better than no publicity.

Then he goes to Nick’s. It feels fitting.

“Oh, it’s you,” Nick says, peeking out the door which he only opens a crack at first. Then he shuts it, which startles Harry until he realizes Nick has one of those little chain locks and has just undone it; Nick reopens the door fairly quickly, at least. “C’mon, get in, then.”

“Bit paranoid, there.”

“Had someone from the Daily Mail try to come in. Claimed they were here at a party the other night and forgot their jacket.” Nick drops his voice to a whisper. “They were lying.”

“Hell.” Harry laughs. “Well, now you’ve learned that lesson.”

“It’s just all a bit weird, isn’t it?” Nick says. Harry reaches for his hand, and leads Nick back into his flat. He’s been ‘round a few times before. It’s nice, if a little sparse on the proper decorations. Lots of things Nick clearly found at thrift shops and in alleyways, including a sign nicked from a bus stop somewhere.

Harry kind of likes it, honestly. It reminds him of being younger and less settled, though his place was never quite like this. He lived with his mum, then he was suddenly rich and famous and had money to burn on infinite nice things. Now he’s rich and less famous, and still has most of those nice things from when he was young and dumb.

“So are we –“ Nick hesitates. “This mean we’re dating now?”

“Yeah,” Harry says. “If you want it to. I said you’re off the market.” He laughs, looking away. “If you don’t want to be, that’s fine, we can keep doing – whatever. Or not, if you’d rather not.”

“No, no, I want to,” Nick says, eager. “Aimee says I’m being stupid, that you’re too old for me, but it’s like – I like you, yeah? And it’s not like we’re about to get married. We can go out for a bit, it’ll be fine.”

“All right.”

Nick lowers his voice, dropping his gaze for a moment. His cheeks are a bit red, and he’s smiling like he can’t help it. “I really like you, is all. I’m glad you’re – yeah. Glad you’re willing to give it a go.”

Harry feels inexplicably guilty, at that, and suddenly quite fiercely protective, as well.

"Don't let - people can be awful," Harry says. "Really, really awful."

"Oh, I'm well aware." Nick grins. "You should see the comments people leave on the Radio 1 Facebook page about me, they bloody hate me."

Harry laughs, sort of startled, because he has trouble imagining anyone hating Nick for his show. Hating Nick for going out with Harry, he can picture, but that's because of how insane his fans were back in the day. Hopefully his fans are a little older now, though there were plenty of younger kids that turned out to his shows recently, too, so he doesn't know.

He just wants people not to be awful to Nick, and for everyone to leave them alone to fumble through whatever it is they're doing. Dating, now. The press sort of forced his hand on that one, but something had to give eventually, Harry supposes. Better now than to spend months wavering over whether or not they're an item and whether or not he should delete Nick from his phone yet again.

Nick presses his forehead against Harry's, and they stand there too close together in the middle of Nick's flat, neither of them even talking. That's a rarity, considering how much Nick loves to go on about nothing.

"All right," Harry finally says, quiet, and kisses Nick, slow and sweet. Everything feels warm and golden, and he's content right now, which is safer than happy, and tends to last longer, as he's found.


End file.
